Third Collection. John Bloom in Lon’on
(All true.) John Bloom he wer a jolly soul, A grinder o’ the best o’ meal, Bezide a river that did roll, Vrom week to week, to push his wheel. His flour wer all a-meäde o’ wheat; An’ fit for bread that vo’k mid eat; Vor he would starve avore he’d cheat. “ ’Tis pure,” woone woman cried; “Aye, sure,” woone mwore replied; “You’ll vind it nice. Buy woonce, buy twice,” Cried worthy Bloom the miller. Athirt the chest he wer so wide As two or dree ov me or you. An’ wider still vrom zide to zide, An’ I do think still thicker drough. Vall down, he coulden, he did lie When he wer up on-zide so high As up on-end or perty nigh. “Meäke room,” woone naïghbour cried; “ ’Tis Bloom,” woone mwore replied; “Good morn t’ye all, bwoth girt an’ small,” Cried worthy Bloom the miller. Noo stings o’ conscience ever broke His rest, a-twitèn o’n wi’ wrong, Zoo he did sleep till mornèn broke, An’ birds did call en wi’ their zong. But he did love a harmless joke, An’ love his evenèn whiff o’ smoke, A-zittèn in his cheäir o’ woak. “Your cup,” his daughter cried; “Vill’d up,” his wife replied; “Aye, aye; a drap avore my nap,” Cried worthy Bloom the miller. When Lon’on vok did meäke a show O’ their girt glassen house woone year, An’ people went, bwoth high an’ low, To zee the zight, vrom vur an’ near, “O well,” cried Bloom, “why I’ve a right So well’s the rest to zee the zight; I’ll goo, an’ teäke the raïl outright.” “Your feäre,” the booker cried; “There, there,” good Bloom replied; “Why this June het do meäke woone zweat,” Cried worthy Bloom the miller, Then up the guard did whissle sh’ill, An’ then the engine pank’d a-blast, An’ rottled on so loud’s a mill, Avore the traïn, vrom slow to vast. An’ oh! at last how they did spank By cuttèn deep, an’ high-cast bank The while their iron ho’se did pank. “Do whizzy,” woone o’m cried; “I’m dizzy,” woone replied; “Aye, here’s the road to hawl a lwoad,” Cried worthy Bloom the miller. In Lon’on John zent out to call A tidy trap, that he mid ride To zee the glassen house, an’ all The lot o’ things a-stow’d inside. “Here, Boots, come here,” cried he, “I’ll dab A sixpence in your han’ to nab Down street a tidy little cab.” “A feäre,” the boots then cried; “I’m there,” the man replied. “The glassen pleäce, your quickest peäce,” Cried worthy Bloom the miller. The steps went down wi’ rottlèn slap, The zwingèn door went open wide: Wide? no; vor when the worthy chap Stepp’d up to teäke his pleäce inside, Breast-foremost, he wer twice too wide Vor thik there door. An’ then he tried To edge in woone an’ tother zide. “ ’Twont do,” the drever cried; “Can’t goo,” good Bloom replied; “That you should bring theäse vooty thing!” Cried worthy Bloom the miller. “Come,” cried the drever. “Pay your feäre You’ll teäke up all my time, good man.” “Well,” answer’d Bloom, “to meäke that square, You teäke up me, then, if you can.” “I come at call,” the man did nod. “What then?” cried Bloom, “I han’t a-rod, An’ can’t in thik there hodmadod.” “Girt lump,” the drever cried; “Small stump,” good Bloom replied; “A little mite, to meäke so light, O’ jolly Bloom the miller.” “You’d best be off now perty quick,” Cried Bloom, “an’ vind a lighter lwoad, Or else I’ll vetch my voot, an’ kick The vooty thing athirt the road.” “Who is the man?” they cried, “meäke room,” “A halfstarv’d Do’set man,” cried Bloom; “You be?” another cried; “Hee! Hee!” woone mwore replied. “Aye, shrunk so thin, to bwone an’ skin,” Cried worthy Bloom the miller.
William Barnes’s other poems:
